


long time coming

by strawberrytozaki



Category: TWICE (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, not angst i pinky swear, squint really hard for minayeon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrytozaki/pseuds/strawberrytozaki
Summary: even the sun and the moon and the clocks on the wall can see that sana and momo are in love
Relationships: Hirai Momo/Minatozaki Sana
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	long time coming

**Author's Note:**

> this is pure middle-of-the-night word vomit, pls enjoy (i apologize in advance for any mistakes)

a sleepy clock ticks in a dark corner of a dark room, dying batteries make each tick come slower than the last in a sad attempt at punctuality. it feels distorted, counting the seconds of another universe and momo is eavesdropping on the secrets of time in a flipped reality. she still counts along, manages to count to twenty-six before her bedroom door creaks open and a familiar weight settles next to her. 

“hi,” the weight whispers into the darkness. twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine—

“hi,” she breathes back finally. sana curls closer into the warmth of her body in response and momo tries not to think about how suffocating it is that their body heat is dancing something sensual where their tank tops don’t cover and their arms brush against each other.

“your heartbeat’s like a song,” sana murmurs because she can, because she can’t see momo’s heavy blush in the absence of light and she has the courage of a thousand soldiers. 

“do you know how it goes?” momo dares to ask. dares to play sana’s dangerous game. because sana is pressed against her like this is how they’re meant to be and sana is warm and sana is beautiful and sana is—

“yes,” sana is breathing, “i write lyrics to it in my dreams.” 

momo doesn’t answer, but her heart skips a beat like a scratched up CD that’s been played one too many times and sana hums at the disturbance. 

the clock ticks syncopated to their evening breaths, desperate fingers clutch momo’s tank top in slumber, momo still wakes to an empty bed. 

[...]

nayeon blows on momo’s fingernails where the fresh pink polish glistens in the too-bright lights of their apartment. 

“it’s cracked,” momo mumbles half-heartedly, scrolls through her emails with her other hand. nayeon glares but it goes past momo’s head, goes right through the wall. 

“stay still,” nayeon hisses, presses her palm to the table and tries again. momo stays still. 

momo hates the shade of pink, but nayeon’s eyes glistened with something joyful when she saw it. with something so joyful and so horribly terribly sad that momo could see the unshed tears looking so heavy they could blind her; something like a memory. they have acetone in the bathroom, anyway. 

“there,” nayeon breathes when she’s done, looks proud and momo smiles, soft and genuine and—

“i like it,” she promises. 

“you look tired.”

momo chuckles but it comes out broken, chipped around the edges and she wonders distantly if she could get a refund on a laugh. 

“busy brain,” she mutters. nayeon tuts, clicks her tongue against her teeth and it’s an annoying habit that she’s picked up from some show she’s been into. 

“sure?” she asks, picks momo’s hand up again to look at her nails. 

“as ever.”

nayeon reaches forward and tugs on her earlobe and momo lets out a yelp. “you shouldn’t lie to your elders,” nayeon chides, half-joking, something hard and serious behind her eyes. 

sana walks in then, before momo has a chance to say anything, to defend herself. she drops her purse by the front door and—

“nice nails,” she hums, picks momo’s hand up and places it down twice as gently. 

momo forgets about the acetone. 

[...]

she feels blood rush to the tips of her ears, buries her face in her pillow to soften sana’s excited squeals. 

“how have you never showed me these?” sana laughs, melodic; momo’s heart beats to the sound. 

“i don’t know why i’m showing you now,” she answers despite herself. sana coos, momo hides. 

sana flips through a box of memories that is more momo’s brain than an inanimate object. momo can feel it, almost, can feel sana digging through her mind and pulling out the next faded polaroid picture or half crumpled movie ticket stub or—

“what’s this?”

“hm?”

“ _to get the girl_ ,” sana reads out, breathless a little bit, confused some and definitely amused. momo feels bile rise in the back of her throat, a gentle reminder that sometimes... sometimes we forget even the boldest of memories. 

the dying clock still ticks in the corner. 

“it was a stupid joke,” she says, “i was thinking about writing a book,” pushes the words past the boulder blocking their path and they come out weak, crumpled. she takes the piece of paper, runs her fingers along the folded edges. 

“will you read it to me one day?”

“one day.”

momo’s pink nail polish chips when she picks at it and she can never say no to sana. 

[...]

it’s always been a looming presence, a third person in a cramped room of two—sana’s affection. sometimes it squeezes itself where it doesn’t belong, steals oxygen like it was built to do it. 

under the bright lights and camera gaze, momo is suffocating. sana laughs a tune into her ear and she shivers, hard enough for the fabric of her shirt to bristle against the fabric of sana’s and she laughs again. 

“cold?”

no, she shakes her head. _hot_ , so overwhelmingly hot it feels like july in december. 

“do i make you nervous, momoring?” sana giggles then, voice too high, too sickly sweet. it’s for the camera and the viewers and—

“they want you to do _taxi taxi_ ,” a glimmer of something in her hoarse voice. sana looks at her and her eyes twinkle like the sun caught in the sea. 

“sometimes, what we want is not what we need!” she scolds the camera, the people watching that feel about as real as the pixels in momo’s phone, with mischief engrained into every twitch of her smile. but she’s still looking at momo from the corner of her eye. 

her fingers trace patterns on momo’s back and momo’s grown tired of trying to decipher them. 

[...]

there’s a gentle hum of mina’s game buzzing through momo’s head as jihyo’s cat perches on her lap and makes himself comfortable. she scratches his ears idly. he reminds her of sana. 

“you’ll make yourself sick, thinking so hard,” mina mumbles, eyes still focused on the screen in front of her. momo stretches her leg as far as it can go without disturbing the cat and flicks mina’s side with her foot. 

“that’s not true,” she says. then, “don’t lie to your elders.”

mina laughs. momo melts back into the couch. then mina wins the game, because she always does, looks to momo in her dimly lit living room. her leg bounces in a way that’s wildly uncharacteristic. 

“what do you think about... gay people?” mina asks, awkward and fumbling and nothing that momo has come to associate with her. there’s something nervous trembling like a live wire beneath her cool exterior and momo can’t find words so she sits up. 

jihyo’s cat jumps from her lap. 

“are you?” she asks dumbly, feels her fingers tapping against the couch. mina’s eyes trail down to them, slowly trace their way back up to meet her gaze—the tide of the sea trails over the sand of the beach before retreating carefully. she lifts one shoulder like she doesn’t know and she laughs again, strained and tired. 

“i don’t know.” behind mina’s head, the title screen of her game starts playing idly. “i think.”

momo’s mouth feels dry, licks her lips once and watches mina catch the movement. her heart hammers against her chest. 

jihyo’s cat has wandered into another room. 

there’s no light in the apartment aside from the artificial blues of the television scattering across their skin and forcing them underwater. then, a sudden flash of white hot courage and stupidity twisting in her chest as momo presses forward. 

kissing mina feels like being submerged in the ocean and searching for a pocket of air. “i don’t... like you,” mina mumbles into her mouth between breaths. she’s soft and pliant, falls back into the couch. momo follows on top of her. 

momo kisses harder, searches faster. she needs air like she needs answers and she hopes she’ll find both as she presses into mina’s mouth. “i know,” a whispered confession before mina pulls her back in by her collar; she’s always been the better swimmer. 

it’s only when it’s later—darker, somehow—mina’s face illuminated still only by the movie playing on the television, that momo rakes her hand through her hair. “i don’t like you either,” she says, comes out shaky and jagged, horrible honesty that cuts a line along the inside of her cheek as it forces its way out. her mouth fills with blood and she can see mina’s cheek raise in a smile. 

“i know.” 

their lips are still kiss-swollen and mina still lets momo play with her hair and they’re fine. 

jihyo’s cat jumps between them and settles like he belongs there. 

[...]

momo traces patterns into her own stomach because sana isn’t here to do it for her. she counts, clock still dying, still giving her a glimpse of a mirrored world; twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty—

“hi.” twenty-eight, twenty-nine. momo thinks she’ll get it one day. wonders if the sana and momo on the other side of the clock have gotten the timing right. wonders if sana and momo even exist on the other side. she figures they must exist in every universe. 

“hi,” she murmurs back. sana traces patterns into her stomach. 

“do you think you understand me?” she asks, breathes the words and hopes momo can catch them before they disappear into the blankness of the dark. 

momo nods, “yes,” she lies. figures it’s okay; she’s older, anyway. 

“good,” sana sighs. “that makes one of us.”

momo almost feels guilty. 

“did you know peanuts aren’t nuts?” sana’s eyes are closed, breathing steady. the clock ticks in melancholy. “peanuts dressed like nuts but are legumes, and momo dressed like an angel but—no, momo is an angel.”

the guilt deepens. 

“peanuts dressed like nuts but are legumes, and sana dressed like sana but is a dream.”

sana giggles, sleepy and soft. it grabs momo’s guilt by the scruff of its neck and throws it into the clock, sends it to the world on the other side of time. she wonders if the other momo is burdened with it now. 

“i thought you understood me,” sana breathes. 

“i lied.”

“you didn’t,” sana whines, fatigue bleeding into her words as she yawns. “you know me, momoring.”

“you make me feel crazy, sometimes.” dry, bloodshot eyes blink up at the ceiling. momo’s filter has faded into nothing, any bit of energy sluggishly pumping in her veins focusing on sana and staying awake. 

“you know me,” sana repeats like it’s supposed to mean something. she yawns again. “momo dressed like honesty but is a liar.” the clock ticks faster, then slower—a kick of life from the aged battery. “a bad one.”

[...]

momo spins the ring on her finger until the cold metal turns warm. it’s a foreign weight, one she hasn’t worn in months, buried between the bead necklaces and broken promises nestled in her box of memories. her’s and sana’s ring. their thing that set momo’s insides on fire when she laid eyes on it. 

she blew the dust off, slipped it on her finger. 

sana’s eyes light up when she catches it glimmering in the sunlight. she clings to momo’s side a little bit tighter all day. 

sana’s ring still sits in its box on sana’s nightstand and momo doesn’t have the courage to ask her to put it back on. 

“i half-thought you lost this,” sana giggles, plays with the ring when it’s just the two of them and she is sitting so close, _so close_ despite the fact that the entire couch is empty. “it’s a promise.” their knees brush and flames lick at momo’s heart like a dog licks at its wounds. 

“of what?” she asks before her throat collapses in on itself. 

“of a million days. just like this.” like this—momo doesn’t know what it means. 

sana leans down, momo’s breath catches, sana kisses the ring. 

“someone might think you’re in love with me,” momo disguises with a laugh, heart dancing a violent storm in her chest. she wonders if sana has words for this song, too. 

sana hums. she leans down, kisses momo’s forehead. “that’s okay.”

momo falls. 

[...]

snow descends from the sky, a blinding mass of white that looks so cold it could burn you. momo feels small—young—as sana pulls her closer by the hand and asks her to dance. 

it’s freezing. neither of them are wearing gloves or hats or proper coats but sana pulls her close and they move in time with the crystals of snow floating in the air. sana pulls her close, presses their bodies together as they sway mindlessly until her clouds of breath mingle with momo’s and she smiles. 

“you know,” she starts, dips momo back just slightly. “they say you’ll be with the person you spend the first snow with for a long time.”

“we spend every first snow together.”

“then i guess it’s true, huh?” 

sana twirls herself under momo’s arm, laughs so warmly momo thinks the snow around them starts to melt. snowflakes stick to sana’s eyelashes, they hold on for dear life and momo figures she understands just how they feel. 

“i guess so.”

sana’s eyes flicker with an aching type of nostalgia, swirling pools of familiarity and momo’s dived off the deep end. a squirrel races up a utility pole with it’s cheeks full of something and momo thinks she could risk everything—could do something stupid like scream, or cry, or ask sana to run away with her. sana would scream back, cry harder. 

cold seeps into her bones. 

in their pyjamas and snow boots, she thinks sana would say yes. 

[...]

they’re all giggly and drunk and the air is charged with something like genuine happiness. momo’s cheeks are tinged pink from the soju that jihyo convinced her to drink, with her puppy eyes and loud declarations of _it’s my birthday!_ and if sana’s heated gaze on the back of her head pushed her to take another shot, and then another just so she wouldn’t have to turn around—she doesn’t think about it. 

sana’s arms find their home around momo’s waist at some point in the night, anyway, inevitably, because there’s a string connecting the two and they can only fight the pull for so long. her limbs settle in the grooves that have been crafted on momo’s body just for her and it stokes the fire pooling in momo’s chest. 

“why haven’t we kissed yet?” sana murmurs when it’s late and they’re drunk and they’ve dispersed from their circle of nine, sprawled out through the living room. she says it like she knows it’ll happen inevitably, like she wants to know why it won’t happen sooner. jihyo’s cat brushes against momo’s leg in time with sana’s breath brushing against her neck and she shivers. 

“do you want to?”

“would i ask if i didn’t?” momo turns to face her now, sees purposeful indifference and knows there’s something nervous hiding behind sana’s eyes. “i feel like everybody kisses their best friend at some point.” purposeful, again—sana’s words. _best friend_ , she said it with meaning, pushes her weight onto the knife that’s been stuck in momo’s heart since they met. 

“i’ve kissed mina,” momo fights back, sticks her own fingers in sana’s wounds. this is what they do when alcohol mixes with repression and they don’t know how to deal with it; play with the stitches that hold the other together. 

sana hums. “i would’ve liked to see that.” momo blushes. 

“it’s not going to happen again,” she says, not quite sure why she needs sana to know. 

“no?” momo shakes her head. “pity.”

“are you going to kiss me, then?” she finds herself asking, peach soju swimming in her veins and making her brave. sana’s smile goes through phases before her eyes—something scared, something gentle, something like a hunter cornering it’s prey and she swallows thickly. she’s not so brave when the sounds of the party fall away to nothing and it’s just her and sana floating in each other’s arms in the darkness of her mind, when sana leans in and her breath hits momo’s lips and momo lets her eyes flutter shut and—

“not yet,” sana whispers against her lips, brings them back to earth just like that. 

in the corner of the room, mina’s eyes catch hers with something like recognition and momo gives a weak smile as she pulls jihyo’s cat closer. 

[...]

it becomes a game. sana taking any opportunity to get close enough for their lips to almost brush. she does it at night in bed or when the sun shines into their living room and nayeon is singing in the shower because sana doesn’t need alcohol to make her brave. 

it’s a game that momo cant win, she knows, because sana’s made it up and momo doesn’t even know the rules. 

so it’s a desperate attempt to gain the upper hand, truthfully, when she pulls nayeon onto her lap at the next gathering. when she lets nayeon shove her tongue down her throat because they’re both drunk and nayeon will kiss anyone pretty and willing and momo is both. sana’s eyes burn holes into the back of her head and she smiles into the kiss, thinking she’s struck a blow to her patience. 

but it’s sana, and momo never stood a chance. 

sana slinks through the room—it’s still a game, she’s still hunting—and puts her hands on momo’s shoulder, runs a hand through nayeon’s hair while she’s busy pressing kisses to momo’s neck and she laughs, loud and freely. momo shivers. 

“is she that good?” sana asks when she notices, because of course she notices. 

momo nods, lies, figures it’s okay. nayeon is still kissing her, amused at the whole thing, and sana is still pressing into her personal space and she knows she’s still losing. 

[...]

momo is on her knees in every way imaginable when sana finally caves. the calculated plan of a hunter crumbling to dust as she sinks her teeth into temptation. 

it comes after weeks of teasing; a cat plays with a mouse until she finally feels sated enough to attack. 

momo is on her knees midway through a stretch when the door creaks open and she doesn’t need to open her eyes to know who it is. her heart thumps wildly when she sees sana in the doorway, like it knew what was about to happen before she did. her clock is ticking in the corner, too slow, time melting away into nothing. she thinks everyone in the other dimension must have stopped what they’re doing to listen to this moment, press their ears to the other end of the clock with shallow breaths and pounding hearts—she feels just the same. 

sana crosses the floor in few short strides, stands in front of momo and cards her fingers through her hair with a gentleness that builds a lump in momo’s throat. looks down on her, somehow does it devoid of condescension. she says, “you look so pretty like this,” brushes her thumb along momo’s cheek and waits for the blush to rise under it, waits for the moment to pounce. 

and then they’re kissing. and it feels like all the power in the world has stopped in its tracks, redirects itself to the press of their lips. puts momo on the peak of a mountain, teetering over the edge where the air is so thin that she’s lightheaded now, adrenaline flooding her veins as sana gives and gives and—

momo can only take so much. 

they pull apart gasping, lungs filled with something that makes it hard to breathe, something too bright that burns their insides, something like—“up,” sana whispers.

sana lifts momo by the straps of her tank top as she straightens her back and sana pulls momo on top of her as she falls into her bed and it turns into a dance. it turns into the ebb and flow of two souls connected in a way that one may only inhale as the other exhales and they dance it like it’s written in the stars, printed into their dna. they tip toe the fine lines and intricacies of each other’s bodies with their eyes closed, whisper promises where the shadows prevail. 

they fall into momo’s sheets and sana traces patterns on momo’s stomach and momo counts along to the broken clock ticking too slow. 

twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty—

“why have we not done that before?” twenty-nine. momo decides tonight is lucky. 

she indulges sana with a smile and doesn’t say more because neither of them know the answer. “you know,” she starts instead, “they warn people like me about people like you.”

sana props her head up on her hand, hair tousled just right and the light from momo’s lamp illuminates the sheet around her chest, makes her look godly. “yeah?” sana hums, eyes twinkling something bright in the dimness of the room, momo’s lungs still burn like she choked on the ashy smoke of one of jeongyeon’s poorly lit blunts. “and what are people like you?” she always reaches for another hit, anyway. 

“hopeless romantics,” momo whispers, traces a path over sana’s face with her eyes and commits this new type of beauty to memory. 

sana hums again, momo thinks it matches the song between her ribs. “and people like me?”

“people that live to feel the sunlight. you’ll do anything for it, won’t you?” 

sana falls silent. silent and contemplative she lets her eyes wander. momo wonders if she’s offended, maybe, hurt, or something else entirely as sana’s eyes take in her bedroom like it’s her first time seeing it. 

“maybe,” she relents, moves her hand from momo’s stomach to walk it up her arm. two steps up, one step back, two steps up, one step—“but what good is the sun if you’re not there to feel it with me?”

emotion clogs momo’s throat, claws it’s way up and threatens to spill over onto the sheets. 

“do you agree with them?” sana asks, then. 

“i think... no amount of warning could have stopped this from happening.”

sana doesn’t ask what ‘this’ is, and momo doesn’t explain, lets the possibilities flood the empty space of her bedroom like she forgot to turn the tap off. 

she doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t need to because sana pulls her close and tucks her chin over momo’s head and whispers something like _goodnight_. 

momo wakes up in the morning to a familiar weight and gentle warmth, sees sana’s hair sprawled across her pillow like tendrils of soil spiralling out, waiting patiently for flowers to bloom from the bed it creates. 

“someone might think you’re in love with me,” sana grumbles, one eye barely cracked open and voice thick with sleep. 

momo leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead. “that’s okay.”

[...]

“it’s a friendship ring.”

it’s later, the sun in the highest point of the sky now as momo brews coffee and toasts toast and sana’s legs dangle from the counter. 

“what?” 

“it’s a friendship ring,” sana says again, swiftly holds momo’s hand before she can turn to pour the coffee. she plays with the metal on her finger and smiles fondly. “that’s why i never put it back on.” 

momo’s heart jumps, sana looks ready to catch it. maybe it belongs to her, anyway. 

“how many sugars?” momo asks and sana grins. 

“black, today,” she sings, her feet kick a little bit with some giddy type of excitement. 

“i told you i don’t understand you,” momo mumbles, hands her the mug anyway. 

“you do,” sana promises. “it’s thursday,” she adds like an answer. “momo’s favourite coffee on momo’s favourite day.” momo feels lightheaded again, sips her own mug of bitterness that tastes sweeter today, somehow. 

“sana dressed like a puzzle.”

“but is a...” sana trails off, leans forward, eager and attentive. 

“just that. is a puzzle.”

momo beams, sana huffs and pouts and sips at the coffee in her mug. 

“do you want me to start wearing my ring again?”

“no.”

sana’s head is tilted like she can see every crevice of momo’s insides. 

“okay,” she smiles, so bright it makes momo’s lungs hurt. 

nayeon trudges into the kitchen then, eyes half-closed but even then, she can feel their lovesick gaze burning holes in the walls. 

“no breakfast for me?” she asks instead of the question that’s been sitting at the base of her throat for years. she can swallow it down for a few more weeks. 

[...]

they fall into each other, after that. things slot into place, piece together like the building blocks of something brighter than the universe and momo’s lungs don’t burn anymore. 

“my mom’s brother died,” momo breathes against sana’s knee. her thigh tenses under momo’s head for a fleeting moment before she relaxes. the light around sana dims and momo wonders if her clock can rewind time. 

she twirls a thick strand of momo’s hair around her finger and tugs gently. momo’s closes her eyes and hums, sighs until she does it again. “your uncle,” sana corrects, or scolds, or means nothing by it at all. 

“my mom’s brother,” momo repeats, presses into sana’s fingers on her scalp. 

“how do you feel?”

momo laughs and something cracks in the air, maybe her head, cracking right open like the eggs sana loves to make in the peak of night. “like it’s just another tuesday.”

“momo,” sana really does scold this time, tugs her hair a little bit too hard for it to be relaxing. 

“i barely knew him,” momo sighs. 

“you feel something,” sana says it like a promise, “or you wouldn’t have told me.”

“i tell you everything.”

“then tell me how you feel.”

“you know, he used to live with us,” momo says instead. sana’s wrist lays over her ear and she can hear the steady beat of her pulse, tries to make lyrics for it. sana melts into the couch—she’s listening. “in the basement—he moved in after he left his wife. i was really little, seven, maybe. i always thought he was a little scary.” sana smiles with her whole body and momo’s on fire. “but his son used to come by—“

“your cousin,” sana murmurs, runs gentle fingers along her hair again. 

“my cousin,” momo relents. “he was my age too and he would come over and we would try to make a new language,” she laughs. sana laughs, too. “my uncle didn’t even get mad when we used all his printer paper.”

sana traces her finger against momo’s ear and doesn’t say anything about the tears dripping onto her lap. 

“are you going home for the funeral?”

“no.” 

“why not?” sana’s still dim and something is scratching inside momo’s throat. 

“i’m scared.” momo who is dressed like a liar but is horribly honest. 

“of what?”

“seeing my mom cry.” sana hums like she understands. “scared that i won’t be able to make her stop.”

sana doesn’t answer; momo doesn’t really need her to. their skin has begun to stick the the leather of the couch and momo wonders if they could melt right into it, maybe, if they stayed still enough, stayed long enough. 

“a girl complimented my hair today,” sana starts, somehow knows just what momo needs to hear. “she was working at this store and she told me it looked great and that was it.”

“no autograph?” momo murmurs now, feels important gentleness in sana’s voice. 

“no,” sana laughs. “i don’t think she knew who i was. it made me think.” momo turns so her back is on the couch and her eyes are on sana and it feels like they’re teetering on the edge of that mountain from all those nights ago. momo can taste the adrenaline as it begins to slosh in her veins, something in sana’s words exciting and terrifying and momo thinks she could jump and sana would follow. “made me think about what it would be like if none of this happened.”

“we wouldn’t have met.”

“we would have,” sana says it like she knows. momo thinks she does. “we would have, i know it.” momo’s heart beats in her throat and she thinks she might throw up the contents of everything she’s feeling and—

“what if we run away?”

sana wiggles down until she lays behind momo and pulls her against her front like they could meld into one person. “where would we go?”

“hawaii. or australia,” momo breathes, eyes fall shut as sana’s breath tickles her scalp. “they have the best candy.”

“hm, you’d get sick of it if we lived there.”

“never,” momo promises. “never ever.”

“then let’s go. i’ll be a kangaroo keeper and you can kill the bugs in our house.” momo’s laugh bubbles thick in her chest and erupts—sticky and sweet and sana hums like it’s her favourite flavour. 

“kangaroos are boxers, you’ll need me to fight them for you.”

“my big and strong momoring,” sana whispers with amusement laced in her breaths, wraps momo in her arms tighter like a statement. “my kangaroos would be nice,” she says then. 

“sana’s kangaroo dressed like a fighter but is a lover.”

“are you talking about yourself?”

“do you want me to be?” sana hums—yes. “then i am.” 

tear tracks dry on momo’s skin and sana doesn’t mention it when she wipes them away. 

[...]

nayeon lays on the edge of momo’s bed like she’s not afraid of falling and momo almost envies her. 

“it’s eight fifty-six,” nayeon mumbles, features set into a deep frown. 

“hm?”

sunlight bleeds into the room through momo’s too-thin curtains and there are sunsets dancing along her walls. nayeon is orange and red and momo is pink and purple and they lay on opposite sides of her mattress like the colours cant touch. 

“it’s eight fifty-six, your clock says two thirty-three.”

momo laughs like it’s an inside joke and nayeon frowns harder. 

“old batteries,” she says, maybe something more. 

“do you need new ones?”

“no.”

it’s quiet save for the off-beat ticks from the corner of the room and nayeon taps a finger against the sheet like she’s trying to find it’s rhythm. momo doesn’t tell her that it’s futile. 

“sana gave it to you.” it’s not a question. 

“she did.” momo answers anyway. “stick your hand in and you’ll travel to another dimension,” she adds, dares, almost with a wiggle of her brows. nayeon looks at her through narrowed eyes and scoffs. 

“if that were true you’d be gone by now.”

the sun has been relieved by the moon and the sky has no colour and momo crawls down her bed until she’s laying next to nayeon. “would you?”

“would i what?”

“stick your hand in.”

nayeon’s eyes look like they’ve seen enough to fill five lifetimes and momo feels young under her gaze. “i would dive headfirst today. but tomorrow? who knows.” momo plays with nayeon’s hair and nayeon yawns heavily on the edge of a cliff. “what do you think about at night?”

“wouldn’t you like to know,” momo teases. nayeon turns her head so they’re looking at each other and she’s waiting and—“i think about making the world’s best malatang and winning an award for it.”

“that’s your dream?” nayeon laughs, momo nods. “it could come true.”

“if i stick my hand in it and hold on tight enough.”

it’s quiet then, nayeon closes her eyes, then momo closes her’s. momo thinks they’re both asleep when nayeon’s words wedge themselves into her slumber. 

“i think... i think about the tide of the ocean and what it would feel like to be whisked away.”

[...]

momo’s room is dark and quiet and a familiar weight is pressed into her side like she belongs there. 

“the batteries finally died.” sana’s pressed into her side like she belongs there because she does. 

“hm,” momo offers through her sleepy voice box. 

“will you finally change them?”

“no.”

sana laughs because she was expecting it. “why not?” she asks anyway, because she’s not sleepy or because she wants to hear momo’s voice or because she really wants to know. 

“i’d like to remember it the way it was.” maybe all of it at once, momo thinks, rolls over so she can make out sana’s features in the moonlight and sees a devoted type of attention that sends sparks to her toes. “i’d like to remember the clock that ticked too slow the way i’d like to remember my uncle that didn’t get mad about printer paper.”

sana looks at momo for a long moment, sticky-sweet something mixing with the familiarity in her eyes and she kisses momo because she can and the sparks turn into a wildfire. “i have something to say,” she breathes and momo drinks up the words as they spill from sana’s lips. sana kisses her again with a proud smile and momo doesn’t even have the air to laugh. 

“you didn’t say anything,” she whispers, stands at the edge of a cliff and trusts sana not to tip them forward. 

“sorry,” sana mumbles, “let me repeat myself.” 

and she kisses her again and again and momo’s toes curl with something like love and sana’s lips press secrets into her mouth that sound like whispers of love and sana’s hand brushes her cheek and momo is drowning in love and—

“did you hear me this time?” sana breathes, presses their foreheads together. momo looks into her eyes and feels something hot blooming up in her chest, something on the verge of erupting from her lips in a fantastic declaration of—

“maybe. one more time, just to be safe.”

sana kisses her until the sun kisses the clouds and love has stained the sheets and their smiles are so permanent it hurts. 

the dying clock is put to rest in the corner of the room, momo still counts its disoriented ticks until she succumbs to sleep. 

the hues of morning light paint two girls in love through a crack in the curtains. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading <3


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